


written with a needle on the corner of an eye

by MysterySpot (MysterySpotMoon)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Bondage, Claustrophobia, Depression, F/F, F/M, Fire, Forced Drugs Usage, Forced Pregnancy, Forced Public Sex, Horror, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, One Thousand and One Nights, Pre-ship, Pregnancy, Psychological Torture, Public Sex, Rape, Slurs, This is the darkest thing I've ever written, Torture, Trigger Warnings Alphabetized for Your Convenience:, Unbeta-ed, Violence, Vomit, dark!fic, voyerisum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10065767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysterySpotMoon/pseuds/MysterySpot
Summary: Harry, Hermione and Ron were captured and brought to Malfoy Manor. They don't get out so fast.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please pay attention to the trigger warnings! This is not as explicit as I've made it sound, but it is dark and I don't want to scar anyone by accident... Also, this is unbeta-ed, so if you see any mistakes please let me know. :)

The first day, she's confused.

She's quiet at first. Only utters an answer between sobs and broken teeth after a harsh step breaks the bones in her scarring hand. He smiles and curls his fingers around her body, he pushes and pulls and probes and laughs and she stays alive. _Such a treat,_ he caresses her head, _you should be honored_.

He pulls her up so hard when he throws her across the room, there are still hair strands left in his hand when she bleeds on the wall.

 _You should be honored, flithy mudblood_.

-

The second day she understands; and that's both horrifying and hopeful.

He smiles almost lovingly when the realization dawns on her face. He almost looks human. She's the brightest witch of her age, he chuckles, of course she would figure out their little game. She knows, in a way, they're lucky he likes to play with his prey. It keeps them alive, she reminds herself, brought to her knees to satisfy him as much as her answer did; it keeps them safe. She licks at his boots and hopes they would get it too.

-

The third day, she thinks they finally catch on.

She's not exactly sure. Even after being healed this morning, there was now no place for expressions on their faces - only blood and dirt and horror and pain. She just hopes that maybe, somehow, they'd spent enough time with her to understand what is happening.

She answers her question, braces herself against the pain and pretends no one else is in the room with them. But then it's not the right hand on her back, it's not the right face over her shoulders, and it's bright blue eyes staring into her soul, and for a second she hopes-

They put on a show for the crowd.

-

By the two weeks mark, it becomes a routine. She gets up, gets tortured, crawls over the floor and answers the question. Then, she screams her throat raw, cleans the blood and the mud and _the_ _filth_ off the floor, and gets put aside, like dirty laundry or an old rug doll.

-

At night, if she's lucky, she stares into green emerald eyes across the hall and reminds herself she has something worth living for.

-

On the 30th day, he starts to ask them questions too, says they cannot get a free ride off her any longer. Chuckles at his own pun.

She's hanging from the ceiling, dressed only in pink silk ropes with kitten prints, and can only look as they bleed over the floor, tortured in a way that's wholly muggle but way more painful than anything they'd ever endured.

-

On the 93rd day, they drag someone in.

She can see it all the way from over the fireplace across the room, even as she tries to escape the fire licking and eating at her skin and flesh, even as she screams. The figure has platinum blonde hair, which is the only reason she recognizes the thin, bloody sack-clad broken mess as anything remotely human. As anything resembling the small, proud boy who used to laugh at her in school, to bully and taunt her.

"Have you realized your mistake, Draco?"

The laugh is high and cold, and the wand is already raised, and for the first time in her life she feels truly sympathetic to that boy who lied to save them when he had all the reasons not to. Her side is blackened and melting - it's only the curse placed on her that keeps her away from her last breathe,- and she knows she has to reserve what little air she has, either to scream out or beg forgiveness, apologize for being born,-  but at that moment, her breathe stops.

Either Bellatrix is still capable of feeling human emotions, or Narcissa Malfoy is way smarter than either of them ever thought. Whichever it is, Draco Malfoy is one extremely lucky man.

His cold grey eyes meet hers as he walks out of the room again, dressed in black robes and armed with a dark mark out for the world to see. She'd think he looks somewhat horrified, but he's gone faster than she can think in between screams and sobs.

Eventually, they bring her down. They heal her, only enough to look pretty and presentable, and he asks her a question.

-

On the 94th day, Draco Malfoy is put in charge of them, responsible for their well-being and health. He doesn't speak, and whenever their eyes meet she sees the bloody mess, and his eyes tell her he sees the melting and black burnt skin.

-

On the 121th day, he starts to treat them better, and all of them know something more terrible, horrible, waits for them at the end of this road. Draco looks at them, and his eyes beg forgiveness. The fact he doesn't even pity them makes her think she's better off dead.

It's only Harry's and Ron's eyes that keep her fighting.

-

It was all a matter of time before either of them makes a mistake.

-

On the 169th day, Ron answers his question wrong.

Hermione doesn't even think, she just throws herself forward and crawls. Kissing his boot and the end of his robe, she begs him to forgive Ron, to overlook his mistake, because he is their forgiving and loving Lord, _and who else would have in their heart such a power to forgive a lowlife their mistake?_

 _Please,_ she pleads, and thanks all her lucky stars which had aligned to let her get this far, _please, my lord, forgive him_.

He backhands her. The ever-existing irony of the most purist magician in the world restoring to muggle violence when he's angry is not lost on her.

"And what does a filthy mudblood like you has to offer? Why should I spear any of your pathetic lives?"

He pulls her up by the hair, harder than he'd ever had, and looks into her eyes. She averts them as if out of honor, because she can't afford him finding what little fight she has left.

"Why shouldn't I kill you right now?"

" _Please_ my lord, I'll do anything you ask of me, I'll give you whatever you want."

He looks amused, "Stupid witch. I can already have anything I want of you."

He laughs, and the room echoes after him, Death Eaters without masks looking as if she'd just told them a joke.

She gathers her courage and fixes her eyes onto his. Quietly, as if she doesn't want to scream and beg against the pain in her scalp and broken feet and burnt ribs, she says, "I can give you my will. I can give you the power over me willingly. No _Imperious_ , no compelling, just me doing whatever you want. _Anything_."

Please, she thinks, that's all she has left.

He looks at her, a little bit angry, a little bit entertained and a little bit - intrigued?

_Lucky, lucky, lucky._

"You think you're worthy of my _mark_ , little girl?"

She shakes her head even as it pulls hair from its roots, "No! _Never_ , my lord. Never would I be worthy of such a honor, my lord. I'm only a mudblood, I'm not worthy - I'll never be -"

He throws her across the room. Her hand catches on the wall and bends the way it shouldn't, yet she doesn't scream because the pain means she's still alive.

"Brightest witch of her age _indeed_ ," he mocks.

She tries to crawl over to him again, but she can't. Instead, she shuffles over slowly on her knees, her broken hand too weak to carry her weight.

Then she straddles him and _rides_.

She rides him on her knees for all to see, using only her tights to control her movements. Her broken limbs give her no leverage, and she strains, biting her lips against the pain.

She rides him hard, moving up and down with a force that makes her want to scream. Each and every movement makes her feel impaled and dirty and _wrong_.

She rides him, not because of a spell or a potion, but because he commands her to.

The Death Eaters around them praise their lord, and then leer at her, making obscene remarks. They hold her boys up by the hair, forcing them to watch her close and count loudly every time she sinks.

And the next day –

The next day Ron is still breathing.

-

On the 200th day they celebrate.

It's a good thing; she reminds herself, opens her mouth and licks.

-

The 270th day is different than the others.

She's not sure why, and Draco looked wary as well, obviously only following orders. He uses a spell to clean them up and then dresses them up in white garments, a striking difference from their everyday filthy birth-suit. He ties them up with pretty, purple silk ribbons - one around the neck and another bounding their arms behind their back, - and leaves them to wait.

They sit on their knees, unmoving and silent, and though it's the first time in months they have the chance to speak to each other, no one dares to utter a word.

They wait all day until eventually they drag them out. Pulling them by the hair over the floor and up the stairs, and then forcing them to stand up and _follow, fast_.

They're brought into the room, and this time there are no questions. He just stands there and watches as they're tied up to three white marble tables. The moonlight pools softly through the window, giving the tables the illusion of being soft and beautiful, instead of the future murder scenes they probably are.

There are no questions, so they're going to die today, she knows. She's - surprisingly fine with it, even _happy_ and prepared for it to be over. She's just sorry she couldn't save her best friends. They don't deserve it, after all.

It's Bellatrix Lestrange who ties them to the tables. She looks more sane than Hermione's ever seen her, and she even leans in and says in a serious, deadly voice, "You should be honored, Mudblood."

She looks jealous, and not unlike a second-best sibling - denied the privilege their sibling had been granted with. Hermione wonders what the hell happened to the woman who less than 24 hours ago had magically pulled out and regrew each of Hermione's fingernails several times over.

There is a door opening, and a shuffle and a small gasp, and it's hard to watch from her position, but it's quite easy to understand what's happening from the conversation being held.

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger is absolutely, utterly _terrified_.

"Glad you could join us, Draco. Come on, take off your mask and stand next to me."

The voice is uncharacteristically warm and happy, so sweet and fake it makes her quiver.

"Look at them, Draco. Isn't it a lovely view? It's a shame they'd have to die; so beautiful, smart enough to stay alive for so long…"

The hand curls in her hair in an almost loving caress, and she jumps when he mock-whispers in her ear, loud enough for everyone else in the room to hear, "Tell them, _Hermione_ , you're a smart mudblood. Tell them the rules of our little game."

"Y-yes my lord."

She hates herself, but maybe if she plays her cards _just right_ she'll get them out of here, at least for today, keep them alive for another day.

"You ask a question, and we have to know the right answer. If we do you grant us the gift of living another day," she keeps her voice level and tries not to let him know just how frightened she feels.

"And what was my inspiration, you might say?"

The room is quiet, and she knows everyone is listening in, not just because they've been ordered to, but because they're honestly _curious_. Will she get the question right, or will it be her end?

She pauses to think, mind working fast as she tries to keep her panic at bay. _She's smart, she's clever, she's the brightest witch of her age, -_

Suddenly, she knows the answer, and she's lost because, if _that's_ his inspiration, _what is his endgame_ _?_

"One thousand and one nights," she whispers.

"Indeed," he raises from his place behind her and walks around the table to stand in her line of view.

"Tell us about the story, Mudblood."

She takes a breathe, forces herself to keep her voice steady and entertaining, to sound less like a sacrificial lamb and more like the storyteller from the story she is weaving.

"One day, the Persian king found out his wife, the love of his life, was unfaithful to him. He was hurt and furious. He ordered her executed, and in his rage resolved to never fall for a woman's charms again. He resolved to marry a new virgin each day, and behead her the next day, so she would never get the chance to be unfaithful to him. He killed a thousand women, and on the one thousand and one day, he chose Scheherazade."

To the end of her days it'd probably be the most bizarre moment of her life. There she was, reciting her favorite bedtime story, naked and bound to a marble table with a room full of Death Eaters listening to her attentively.

With each pause she makes, each times a sentence ends; she waits for the hit, the strike, _the killing curse_. However, even Voldemort himself just stared at her, an eerie grin on his face.

"Scheherazade loved books and knew thousands of them by heart. But more importantly, she was a talented storyteller. She knew a lot of legends and tales and knew how to weave then together and make them more entertaining and fascinating."

The story, the clear _facts_ , makes her more self-assured, her voice growing stronger with every word. _Maybe they'd have Scheherazade's end of the story. Maybe there's still hope…_

"Scheherazade was clever. The first night she spent with the king she told him a story which kept the man awe-struck and hanging on her every word. However, when the sun came up, she never reached its end. Intrigued, the king decided to spare her life and gave her another day to live and finish her tale. The next night, she finished her story and began a new, more exciting one, which she also left unfinished as the dawn broke. And so the king granted her another night. It went on and on, until on the one thousand and one day, Scheherazade ran out of stories to tell the king. Resolved to her fate, she finished her story before the dawn broke. However, by then the king had fallen in love with her, and spread her life, making her his queen instead."

Silence sets in, tensed and confused. Hermione herself feels unsure for a second - they _would_ die, so why base their entire imprisonment on such a hopeful story? And _why_ acknowledge their silent agreement? _What was he playing at_ now _?_

Then, _his_ smile turns vicious and he says, "You're _wrong_. You _forgot_ something."

Stunned, Hermione feels the world spinning around her. She _couldn't_ be wrong, she _couldn't_ be the reason they're going to die, - and _how_ could she forget something when she had the story _memorized_ since before she got her Hogwarts letter?

He leans dangerously close to her ear, and whispers as loud and dramatically as he can,

"She also gave him three heirs."

That was when she realizes her mistake. Death would be better than what'll happen to her today.

-

His blood would turn the babies pure, he says, just as Draco's blood would overcome the taintedness of blood treason.

She knows for as long as she lives this night would hunt her nightmares: the mock gentleness of the touch on her skin; the cheering voices; staring bravely into green, blue, grey eyes, more hollow and horrified than they'd ever been; Draco's steel face and the barest, barely seen shake of his hands she only got to see because the table besides her was _so close_.

 _Masculum Conceptio potion_ , Voldemort announces happily. _Male Pregnancy potion._ After all, when you've already won, you can afford to acknowledge the redeeming features of your hostages, and use them to create stronger and better heirs. To use what they value most against them.

_Family_ _._

She's always feared it would come down to it, but actually knowing she'd get pregnant that night - knowing her friends would face the horrible fate of a male carrier, the clocking ticking slowly towards pain and fear and the end of their lives, knowing she would never meet her child, knowing this is the only life they would know-

It leaves her hopeless. What does she have to live for now? Dying would be the most merciful thing she could do for her future child.

-

On the 271th day, no one comes for them.

(There's only Draco, taking care of them with hands so shaky he almost spills their water on the floor.)

-

On the 282th day, they bring her out again.

She's pushed to her knees and praised for being such a good little obedient baby-making slut.

-

On the 300th day, they throw another celebration.

She spends it on her back with her legs tied up and spread, and is sickeningly thankful they just run knives over her and have a go at her for dessert. They leave the others in their cells, _too vulnerable to be played with,_ they say.

At night she dreams of taking one of their knives and craving the baby out of her. Tying it to an owl and sending it away, helping it escape this hell. In her dream she's left shaking and bleeding on the floor, half of her insides out, eyes watching through the small window as they get further and further away from her.

When she wakes up she's not yelling or screaming or kicking - there are tears running down her face, and they're hopeful, thankful, taste sweet in her mouth.

They turn sour when she realizes it was just a dream. All she has left to do is hug herself, crying back to sleep.

-

On the 321st day, Ron throws up for the first time.

He triggers the rest of them again and again and again, until there's nothing left for them to throw up anymore, and a few times more after that. By the time they're able to stop there's blood, mixed with bile, running down their necks, and tears running down their faces, and maybe if they throw up some more they'd die, so she throws up again.

-

On the 322nd day, Draco slips her a note, scribbled hastily on the torn corner of a parchment.

She reads it, tears filling her eyes, and then she shoves it in her mouth and chews it to tiny little pieces she forces herself to swallow. She nods and gives Draco a weak grin, which he - hesitantly and quickly, - returns.

 _I'll break you out_ , it said, and hope filled her once again.

-

On the 348th day, Draco caresses her cheek.

It's a small gesture, but it's the only gentle touch she'd felt in almost a year. A small sign of affection, so dangerous and so necessary, and she feels herself tremble with emotions she almost forgot existed.

-

On the 349th day, Draco gives a small squeeze to Harry's hand, and even all the way from her cell she can see the ghostly smile he's rewarded with.

-

On the 350th day, Ron scrambles to get away from Draco's hands, horror evident in his eyes.

When the blonde just runs his fingers lightly through his hair, the redhead breaks down and cries, hugging him close to his chest. They hold each other for a few seconds, but it's more meaningful than any other hug she'd ever witnessed in her life.

Draco's eyes shine a little when he leaves.

-

On the 365th day, she's once again the main entertainment, though this time both of her boys escort her, tied up on each of her sides.

("Don't you look pretty like that, Mudblood?" he asks and she answers, she _always_ answers.)

The formerly-masked monsters laugh and poke and flick, but she doesn't care because they can do whatever they want. She has hope again, and they have a chance to win. A small chance, but that's all she asks for. All she's got left.

They plan it. Draco passes her notes, she nods her answers, and they converse silently back and forth for weeks.

Therefore, she's not surprised when Narcissa Malfoy is chosen to escort them back to cell - because they were three weak, abused and helpless pregnant _teens_ crawling on the floor, defenseless hostages in the hand of the most powerful wizard alive.

They would not escape. They _could_ _not_ escape.

Except they do.

They're led down the stairs again, and Draco waits for them, and there's a plain, brown bag in his hands.

Narcissa helps them stand up, hands stabilizing their unsteady bodies. Her best friends are confused - wary even, - because seeing them exchange notes, feeling Draco's comforting hands and smile, it's not the same as _knowing_ they can trust him. However, they trust her blindly and so follow her guidance as she smiles and walks up to the blonde.

He's kneeling, one hand keeping the bag open, and the other outstretched with a rare yet tight smile gracing his face.

She kisses him lightly, hugs his neck for support, and gets into the bag one leg after another. Her boys don't take long to join her, and when they do they look around with awe and a hint of recognition, and they're quiet and still as the world around them gets dark.

They're moving and it's almost like being on a boat. They're holding their breathes and each other's hands as they move, and they hope and hope and hope and _hope_ -

-

After what feels like years later, the bag opens.

"We're out of there."

His voice, which she hadn't heard in years, is like music to her ears. His face, staring at them from way far above, is paler than usual, but there's not a scratch on the handsome features.

He'd been ready to fight for them, to _die_ for them, and they're lucky he did not.

They get out, and it's a small dusty and dirty apartment in the outskirts of some town three Apparition locations and four buses away from the manor. Narcissa makes them food, and Hermione almost breaks down and cries when she's finally able to locate their wands in the bag.

They clean themselves up, just as much as they can, and Draco patches up and heals whatever wounds he can. They're holding each other, and they're holding him. They're not speaking, and they're not crying - not yet, not until it's all over, and they still have a long way to go.

They still have months to go.

-

In the morning; she wakes up. She finds herself in a tangle of bodies, sweaty and messy, and warmer than they should be.

She opens her eyes. Blonde, ginger, black. She clutches them close, pressing them into her body and her heart as if she'd never let them go.

She swears she'd never let them go.

-

And on the 367th day, Hermione smiles.

**Author's Note:**

>  _"My story is of such marvel that if it were written with a needle on the corner of an eye, it would yet serve as a lesson to those who seek wisdom." ~ 1001 Arabian Nights_  
>  \---------  
> Thank you for reading! I haven't posted a fic in about 10 years and am super worried about it, so I hope it wasn't horrible. Reviews are more than welcome! :) This was originally named "we're falling apart to halftime (it's a question of life or death)", as I had no had no idea what to name this piece and I also couldn't believe I wrote this.  
> "we're falling apart to halftime" is from "Dance, Dance" by FOB.  
> \---------  
> The Harry Potter fandom stories, contain characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given but since no money is being made, no infringement is intended. Section 102(b) of the U.S. Copyright Act makes it clear that copyright protection does not extend to ideas, procedures, concepts, principles or discoveries - only the actual words used to express those things.  
> 


End file.
